


amorío

by coloredink



Series: Sinsemilla [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Humor, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-04
Updated: 2007-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There can be no summary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amorío

I encounter the viera first.

Very much to her credit, she is wholly unsurprised to see me, though surely she did not expect to encounter such a figure as I in the midst of the steppes. One claw goes to the short sword at her side, and I hold up both hands, palms turned outward, in what should be the universally-recognized sign that I come in peace. I mean no harm! Well, not very much harm. And none to her, at any rate.

"Balthier!" she calls, without removing her eyes from me. She is smart, this viera. "We have company!"

There is a clatter from within the Strahl--the vessel he "borrowed" is nowhere in sight--and that sky pirate pokes his head out from the hatch. "Ah," he says, upon seeing me, a pleasant expression fixed on his face, "if it's the ship you're after, I'm afraid I've already sold it."

"I would have expected no less," I said, grandly; I am nothing if not a generous and forgiving soul, after all. And I did not expect less, truly; I do not lie. "But if you had but _asked_ \--after all, who am I to deny the savior of Rabanastre?"

Flattery is never wasted on his pirate. He preens a little, says, "Ah, but the other way was much more fun." He leaps down from the ship and comes to stand next to his viera partner with an insouciant swagger, no doubt designed to make me recall lustful memories. "Well, then, what is the purpose of your visit? You haven't a retinue with you, so it must not be official."

As if a prince of Rozarria need have a bevy of attendants to mark his visit as "official?" But I do not correct him; it allows him to preserve his dignity. "I merely thought to return the courtesy of your last visit," I say, smiling. The sky pirate narrows his eyes, though his smile does not waver. The viera hardly moves; she is made of stern stuff, this one. "I even bear a gift," I add, and reach into my breast pocket. The viera's fingers close on the hilt of her sword, and I smile at her as I produce my offering.

The viera wrinkles her nose at the smell. "It is _sinsemilla_ ," she informs her partner.

The pirate raises both eyebrows. "Oh," he says, his tone altered entirely, now that I have captured his attention. The lengths I go to! I know not why I bother. "Well, it would be boorish to the extreme for me to refuse you," he says, "especially as you've gone through all the effort of seeking us out."

"It was not easy," I allow--I do not _admit_ , you see. "Even my little birds must need some time to seek out the falcon."

Balthier regards me darkly. Ah, perhaps the "falcon" was too much. He turns, and pauses. "Coming, Fran?"

The viera shakes her head. "The weed--it dulls the senses. And the scent, it is noxious to viera. I will shelter in town tonight."

"Suit yourself," says the pirate, disappearing into the ship. I follow. Ah, so we shall be alone? Better and better.

The inside of the _Strahl_ is very--small. Surely he did not give up a capacious Rozarrian vessel for this? My estimation of the sky pirate must surely fall a little, but then a kingly figure emerges from the cockpit, gray-furred with a most regal green-eyed gaze.

"Ah!" I cannot help but exclaim, stooping to offer my hand. The cat inspects me gravely and then presses his face into my palm. I scratch his jaw. "And who is this little royal one?"

"He doesn't have a name yet," Balthier explains, regarding us with narrowed gaze. He has taken affront to the cat's instant like for me, when clearly it is only that he does not give the little one the dignity he deserves. Imagine, not giving him his name! But then the pirate continues: "He has to _choose_ his name, after all, and he hasn't liked any of the suggestions." Ah, well, his philosophy is correct, but I have not much faith in his ability to choose a suitable name for the cat. What manner of name is "Strahl" for an airship, after all? There is no fire in such a name.

"Cats, they are well-known for their fickle natures," I say; what Prince would I be if I were not capable of a diplomatic tongue?

"Indeed. And this one more than most, I believe." He reaches out a hand to stroke the cat, who nimbly avoids him and pads away to his presumably accustomed berth in the cockpit. He tsks and masks his disappointment well, though doubtless he was dismayed to be so rebuffed in my presence. "Ah, well," he says, in that flippant way that he thinks is so charming. "This way to the cabins."

Straight to the point, eh? Or--which is more likely--he does not wish to give me too free a rein in his precious ship. The cabins are, at least, somewhat roomy, though one could hardly tell from the state of his quarters. Bags and items are strewn all haphazard across the floor, and one corner is fully occupied by what appears to be a, a _pile_ of stale vestments. Balthier kicks it carelessly to one side.

"Forgive the mess," he says, in a manner that shows he is not sorry at all. "The bed, I assure you, is quite secure."

The "bed" is little more than an alcove in the wall, hard and unforgiving. Ah, what a Margrace must endure! But I take my seat upon it, and Balthier hands me cigaret papers. He rolls his own with practiced hands; well, at least I shall not have to tolerate a _novato_ to the art. He lights my cigaret as well, and there is a grace to his wrist that even I must admire; long years spent with the gun, I have no doubt.

The room soon fills with our smoke. I breathe it in, breathe out, and let the familiar haze suffuse me. I let my head fall back against the against the wall. The warm rush fills my head, bulging the backs of my eyes and spreading across my temples, quirking the corners of my mouth. Balthier, too, is smiling, with dark and drowsy eyes. He sucks the smoke into his mouth again, releases it in a dim cloud.

"Ah," he says in a long, lazy sigh. "This is good." He sounds surprised--and pleased, despite himself.

"Naught but the best from Rozarria," I reply.

Already his eyes have begun to redden from the smoke. He brings the cigaret to his lips again, exhales again. "Fran does not much care for _sinsemilla_ , as you may have noticed," he says. "And there's little point to it on one's own."

"Indeed," I agree.

Time loops and stretches, as it will, as it does. Balthier lies with his back upon the bed and his feet on the floor, his knees bent. His cigaret is down to the end, smoldering faintly, and he looks rather wistful about it. He could have another, if he wishes, but the papers are altogether too far away now. I sympathize and lay my fingers across his lips, my cigaret between them. He regards me with a black, knowing gaze, and his night-whiskers scratch as he closes his lips around the half-smoked cigaret and breathes. I take my hand away.

"Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome," I reply, before I bend down and press my mouth to where my fingers were before. He tastes of smoke and the strong, pungent _sinsemilla_.

"Ah," he says against my teeth. "So this is what you were after."

"Was this not what you meant, when you said that _sinsemilla_ is best enjoyed with others?" I grin.

"It might," he says, vaguely. He takes the cigaret from me and burns the paper down, and then drops it on the floor. He brings both hands to my face and captures my mouth again. He thinks he makes love to a woman.

Lesser men than I would be wholly occupied--say what you will of the sky pirate Balthier, but he is not an inferior lover, though of course he is not nearly my equal. I am no lesser man. And so even while I do battle with his clever tongue, my hands are busy with the fastenings of his vest, and below that the laces of his shirt, and then I begin on his trousers.

He watches with sleepy interest as I divest myself. When he sees my already-full prick, he--he _rolls his eyes_. I cannot help but be indignant.

"Gods spare us," he says to the ceiling.

"In Rozarria, a man's hair is the measure of his virility." I do not disguise my pity for the thinness of the hair on his chest and underneath his arms. _His_ prick still lies soft atop his thigh.

"It is because you have been overgenerous with your weed," he replies, but he parts his legs anyway.

I take him in hand, to see if I might arouse some interest. It cannot be so difficult, to excite a man. But then, he has smoked rather a lot. "You slander Rozarria, to call our beloved _sinsemilla_ a dirty weed."

"That was rather the point." His inward breath trembles, so what I do must not displease him. But he does not grow any stiffer. It would insult another, but I am a generous soul, and one who is willing to overlook the faults of others. It hardly matters, anyway, when I will play the man here.

The phial is hidden in my vestments on the floor, and by the time I find it Balthier is boneless and half-asleep. I hoist up one leg over my shoulder and push one wet finger into him--rude, perhaps, but it serves to open his eyes a little. I add another, opening him. It is something of an annoyance, to be sure. With women it is so much more straightforward, but it is agreeable to hear a man groan. I stroke him, inside, with the tips of my fingers, where it pleases men, and he moans and scrapes his toes against my shoulder. I do it again. With a woman I would slow, tease her, perhaps love her with my mouth, bringing her to crest again and again before mounting, but it is different with men, more like battle. I do not put my mouth on a man.

I press inside, both legs over my shoulders now. He shivers most satisfyingly, and I find that I must stop as well, to breathe and control myself. The _sinsemilla_ heightens sensation--hence why it is best enjoyed with company, you see?--and men are so tight and hard inside. Women are softer, more supple, and a man slides into her like home; I much prefer the charms of a woman. A man will fight you--but sometimes, a man wants a fight, no? Yes.

I push in, deeper.

"Gods, you take _forever_ ," he whines. His words are glazed from the _sinsemilla_.

"I am enjoying myself," I declare.

"Well, _I'm_ not," he grumbles, reaching down to take his soft prick in hand. He swats at my hair with one foot. Ugh, what dirty habits they must have here. "Try a little harder, won't you?"

"I would not take such cheek with a man in my position."

"Well, you don't seem to be taking your position very seriously," Balthier says. He sounds cross, or halfway to being cross, as if he has not yet decided whether or not he is. The _sinsemilla_ has a tight hold on him.

"Ah, but that is not your decision to make," I remind him. I draw out and push in, faster, to emphasize my point. Someone must simply teach this pirate a lesson; one does not mock a prince of Rozarria and get away with it. Oh, and now he has bitten his lip. How cute. I do it again, and he makes some sound and grips the bed, which offers him no purchase. His prick is still soft, but from the arch of his neck and the sweat of his brow I can see that he has no complaints now, and that is as it should be. His breath catches on every thrust, and I occupy my mind with thoughts of how I might mock him for this later. It is enough to keep me from spending myself, at least for a little while.

"A-ah," he says. "What time is it?"

Oh, now I am insulted.

"I was just wondering," he says, and perhaps I can blame the _sinsemilla_ for his clarity of thought, save that it usually has the opposite effect, "if it weren't about time we were finished with this. Not that it isn't extremely pleasant," he bends the word _extremely_ , "but I think I am about to fall asleep."

I have had quite enough of his chatter, and I inform him of this by virtue of my hand over his mouth. He bites my thumb savagely, and that is enough for me to halt and shudder out my completion.

Because I am so courteous, I do not collapse immediately atop him, but instead number my breaths to five. Then I open my eyes and discover that, true to promise, he has fallen quite asleep. I remove myself with care, and--because I am courteous--rearrange him more comfortably on his bed. He does not even stir, and it is with great satisfaction that I retrieve my clothes. I bother only with the trousers; there is no one here to see me, after all.

Save the cat.

The little king waits outside the door and regards me with solemn eyes.

"Of course," I assure him.

\---

Next morning, the sky pirate will not find his cat. He will, however, find a note.

 _The little kitty is so cute, I thought he would make a fine royal pet. - he from whom you once borrowed an airship_


End file.
